The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow
by C.L. Curtis
Summary: An account of her twenty years spent as an outlaw, from the eyes of Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow herself. A re-write of the original fic, rated for mild language, mischief, violence, and of course, outlaws. Begins in Green Lake, Texas.
1. Chapter 1

The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow

**The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow (REWRITE)**

**Part I **

**Author: C.L. Curtis**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Kate or Holes or anything that Louis Sachar dreamed up in that brilliant mind of his. I do, however, own all of the original characters that are bound to pop up throughout this. Don't steal them, or I'll beat you with a rolling pin. Violently.**

**Note: This is a rewrite and continuation of the fic with the same title that I started four years ago. Those of you who read the original will see similarities, but a lot is bound to change. **

May 1, 1890

As I sit at my desk and listen to the children laugh and talk outside, my thoughts linger on my own family, and how I miss them. Elizabeth will have her seventh birthday this summer, and Jacob has just turned fourteen. While it is true that my time is normally otherwise occupied with my students, at times like this I can't help but feel that something is missing.

I left our home in Killeen to come to Green Lake. Coming from a wealthy family, it never occurred to me that many, many people have never had the opportunity to read or write. Always a lover of books and poetry, I couldn't imagine what it would be like to look at a page of words and see only symbols in place of a story. The thought scared me, to put it bluntly.

It all began one day when, traveling with my family, we stayed at Green Lake with a friend of my father's for a day. I sat on the front porch reading a book of poetry by Edgar Allan Poe, when a young girl of about ten years approached me.

"Hello there." I greeted her with a smile.

"Hi," she answered shyly, before inquiring: "What are you reading?"

"A book of poetry, by Poe," I answered. In return, I received only an expression of utter blankness.

I laughed. "My goodness, child. Haven't you ever read any Poe?"

"No," she answered, still more shyly. "I can't read." She drew in the dust as she continued to speak, avoiding my eye this time. "Not many folks here can. The men work all day…"

Here, her eyes finally met mine. "And we don't have anyone to teach us." She gestured towards an old ramshackle schoolhouse. The windows were dark, and people walked past it without half a glance.

I was astounded, and unsure of exactly how to reply. At last I was able to will my mouth to form words, and I replied: "Well, then it's time you started!"

Smiling brightly, the little girl sat down at my side. I began to read her one of my favorite poems.

_"It was many and many a year ago. _

_In a kingdom by the sea _

_That a maiden there lived whom you may know _

_By the name of Annabel Lee- _

_And this maiden she lived with no other thought _

_Than to love and be loved by me." _

I must have read her twenty poems that day, and am proud to say that her interest in poetry grew steadily by the end of each. When her mother came to collect her, I sat back and thought about her, and the many other children who will likely never know the pleasures of reading.

The very next year, I moved to Green Lake. Miss Emma Wilson, now thirteen, became one of my best students.

**May 2, 1890 **

While watching the children head home this afternoon, I realized that the weather is changing. Beautiful and sunny all week, it has suddenly turned humid, dark clouds hovering in the grayish blue sky. Dreading walking from the schoolhouse to my cabin in the rain, I gathered up my books and paper and valiantly made my way onto the street. And whom should I meet there but "Onion Man" Sam, as he is known fondly by the people of Green Lake.

"Onions! Get your hot, sweet onions! Only eight cents a dozen!" he was calling. Several of my students were gathered around him, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke to them.

Assuming my place at the back of the crowd, I smiled to myself and listened to the biography of Sam's donkey, Mary Lou, yet again.

"Did you know that Mary Lou is over 50 years old?" Sam was asking the group, feeding the beloved donkey an onion out of the palm of his hand. "The secret to her long life? The only thing she eats is onions!"

"You're saying that if you only eat onions, you could live to be 50?" asked Danny Pike, a mischievous eleven year old. "That's really old!"

"Oh, you could live to be far over 50!" Sam replied with utter charisma. "Over 200! However, 50 years old is extraordinary for a donkey."

"It sure is," I spoke up, unable to help myself. "But how would you know?" Plain as day, Sam can't be any older than 25, half the alleged age of Mary Lou.

Sidestepping my question, Sam simply replied with a grin: "It's true! The onion is God's chosen vegetable. It can do amazing things."

Sensing that this was the conclusion to Sam's "presentation", the students went about their separate ways, calling their goodbyes over their shoulders. In spite of myself, I bought three onions for myself, and one extra for Mary Lou. I laughed as she ate from the palm of my hand, my happy mood fading only when I looked to the sky.

"Is everything okay, Miss Katherine?" asked Sam.

"Oh, I suppose," I replied, with a sigh that was probably less than convincing. "It just looks as though it's going to rain, is all."

"Why don't you like the rain?" Sam inquired innocently. "Me and Mary Lou, we like the rain."

"Oh, I do like the rain, don't get me wrong," I responded honestly. "The more, the better for us, really. It's only that the roof of the schoolhouse leaks something horrible…"

"I can fix that," he offered, cutting my lamentation short and replacing the smile to my face.

The conversation extended on a bit from there, but the point of the matter is this: Sam is going to come fix the roof, in exchange for six jars of my spiced peaches. An even trade, I would say.

**May 4, 1890 **

I taught night school for adults last night, and at its conclusion I was dismayed to find Trout Walker requesting my company on a date. I declined with a "No, thank you" that I deemed to be both polite and appropriate, but he persisted.

"No one says no to Trout Walker!" he exclaimed, the heat rising in his face. A weaker woman may have withered and given in just there, but I am proud to say that I held my ground.

"I believe I just did," I responded curtly. "Have a good night, Mr. Walker."

Mumbling under his breath something that was probably obscene, he purposely knocked into a desk on his way out.

Pondering the possible repercussions of my actions, I sat down at my own desk, rubbing the tension from my temples. Trout Walker is such an ignorant, rude man, and yet I can't help but pity him. While his family owns the lake and most of the town, people care for him for the person he is about half as much as they care for his money and power. However, I can't help but to wonder if he would act the way he does if he _weren't_ born into such money and power.

**May 5, 1890 **

Sam began work on the roof today. I must admit that it was very nice to have someone to talk to as I sat grading papers. Admittedly, however, that conversation is somewhat limited.

"How are you doing up there?" I called at one point, while there was a brief pause in the pounding of the hammer. The words were barely out of my mouth before it resumed.

"Just fine!" I could hear him reply faintly. I tried to say something else, but found it impossible to compete with the noise.

Before I knew it, I had to head home for supper before night classes began.

"You go on ahead, Miss Katherine," he assured me, when I apologized for needing to leave. And so I did, but with a heavy heart.

**May 12, 1890 **

After a long day at work, Sam finished repairing the roof today. Shouting up through the beams, we were able to have an inspiring conversation. I was somewhat surprised to learn of his tremendous interest in poetry. I discovered this as I was reading him a poem by Longfellow.

_"Awake! arise! the hour is late!  
Angels are knocking at thy door!  
They are in haste and cannot wait,  
And once departed come no more-"_ I began to recite.

_"- Awake! arise! the athlete's arm  
Loses its strength by too much rest;  
The fallow land, the untilled farm  
Produces only weeds at best,"_ he finished, pausing in his work to smile down at me.

Though simple, the act amazed me. I have known Sam for close to two years, but only since this past week can I honestly say I know him.

When he was finished with the roof, he entered the door of the school  
house, grinning.

"I guarantee that roof for at least 5 years, Miss Katherine," he said with an air of accomplishment, wiping his hands and face.

I thought it would have been easier to smile at this news, but in all truth, I was sad that the job was done. I barely had time to ponder on my conflicting feelings, when he posed a very complicated question.

"Is something wrong?" My expression must have given me away.

"No, you did a wonderful job." Taking a quick glance around the room, my eyes settled on the windows. I sighed wistfully. "I couldn't ask for anything more…But the windows won't open. The children and I would enjoy a breeze now and then."

"I can fix that," he replied, and I thought I caught a twinkle in his eye.

**May 13, 1890 **

I got to spend another afternoon with Sam today while he fixed the  
windows. It was much easier to talk with him this time, seeing as he wasn't all the way up on the roof. I hardly have a voice left at all from shouting to him all week.

It was after dark by the time he finished. Instead of preparing for night classes, I prepared to leave. Everything in town is closed, including school, as the Walkers are having one of their signature parties. I hardly expected an invitation.

"If you don't mind, Miss Katherine, I would like to walk you home," he stated as I got to my feet, very matter-of-face. "It's not safe for a woman to walk alone at night."

"I highly doubt we have anything to be afraid of in Green Lake," I replied, but accepted his offer gladly.

Don't think I haven't noticed how very pathetic it is that I am so joyous over every minute that I get to spend with Sam. However, every moment spent with him is an adventure in itself, and totally worthwhile.

**May 20, 1890 **

I must admit to you, diary, that my relationship with Sam has evolved into something I can't quite begin to put into the words. I feel for him much more strongly than I ever have for a friend before, and am desperate to remain in his company.

Over the past week I have complained that "The door doesn't hang  
straight" and that "The desk wobbles." Sam finished his work on the  
schoolhouse today, and it looks incredible. Now there is nothing left to be  
fixed, although I feel wounded in my own heart.

**May 21, 1890 **

Today was a rainy, dreary Saturday. Finding myself with nothing else to do, I sat inside the schoolhouse, reading. The room was silent, save for the steady drops of rain on a newly-whole roof. Once again found myself very lonely, my thoughts drifting once more to Sam, and how he had looked as he stood in the very same room, happy to devote his time to helping me. Sighing and attempting to push the thought from my mind, I flipped to the next page of the book, and what should I come across but "awake! Arise"? In that moment, I gave in to the tears and let them fall, burying my head in my arms.

I know not how much time passed. Only that, as if from a dream, I heard a familiar voice calling on the street. I hardly dared to believe it at first.

"Onions! Get your hot, fresh onions!"

And that was all it took. In half a second, everything made sense. It was all clear as day. I love him.

My God, I _love _him.

I don't know what exactly came over me, but I ran out into the street, for once not giving a thought to the weather. I threw my arms around Mary Lou's neck, clinging to the animal for some comfort even as I looked up at Sam through bleary eyes.

"Oh, _Sam_," I managed through tears. Faltering, at as loss as to what to say next, the words that followed poured from my soul, open and honest. I have never felt so vulnerable in all of my life. "My heart is breaking."

A moment of silence passed between us, gazes locked. When he spoke next, his voice was as filled with emotion as my own. I might have imagined it, but it seemed as though his own deep brown eyes were bright as well.

"I can fix that," he said at last, taking both of my hands in his and lifting  
me to my feet. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he kissed me.


	2. Chapter 2

The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow

**The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow **

**Chapter Two**

**Author: C.L. Curtis**

**Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I was still definitely not Louis Sachar. However, I did put a good bit of effort into this, so reviews are appreciated. **

**May 23, 1890 **

My hands are shaking as I write. The past two days have been a nightmare, if they really happened, which I am still refusing to believe. I fear to look in the mirror again, because the person staring back at me is a stranger.

Yesterday, I sat inside the schoolhouse in a complete and utter daze. It had been hours since Sam had kissed me, and yet it still felt as though I were floating. But, even though I couldn't yet form complete coherent thoughts, I realized that the schoolhouse was empty. At first, I thought that perhaps I had mistaken the day. Considering that my thoughts were otherwise occupied, it could very well have been Saturday for all I knew. Of course, that was not the case.

I heard shouting outside, my only warning before a mob of men and women rushed in to the school house. They were led by none other than Trout Walker.

Within an instant, they began to pile books in the center of the room, still shouting as if they had lost their minds. Someone set fire to the outside wall.

"There she is!" Trout exclaimed over the pandemonium, pointing in my direction. "The Devil Woman!"

I couldn't bare to see the school house, where I had so many memories and which Sam had taken such care to rebuild, destroyed.

"Please," I pleaded helplessly, trying desperately to catch someone's—_anyone's_-- eye. "Think about what you are doing!"

Someone tried to grab my dress, and I cried out in terror. Realizing that there was nothing I could say or do to stop them, I managed to escape the riot. I ran to the only place that I thought I could find sanctuary.

I reached the sheriff's office, heart beating frantically in my chest, tears pouring down my face. The sheriff himself was seated behind his desk, feet propped up on top. He raised his eyebrows as I entered, as though he had been expecting me.

"Help me!" I cried out, ignoring his nonchalant demeanor. "They're going to burn down the schoolhouse!"

"Calm yourself down a second, Miss Katherine," he slurred, crossing his arms over his chest. "And tell me what's troubling you."

"Trout Walker has-"

"Now, don't you go saying anything bad about the Walkers," he interrupted.

"Please," I begged. "There isn't much time!"

"Kiss me," he responded, rising to his feet and taking a single, unsteady step toward me. In complete and utter horror, I stared at him for a long moment. Then, I slapped him across the face. Much to my dismay, he burst out laughing.

"You kissed the onion picker," he answered, a look of total malice in his eye. He stumbled over, closing the distance between us. "Why won't you kiss me?"

I could only stare at him again, blinking as my mind began to piece together what was happening. "You're drunk!" I cried in disbelief, shakily stepping back away from him.

"I have good reason," he sneered. His expression remained unchanged, the crazed look still intact in his eye. "I always get drunk before a hanging."

I backed toward the door, my heart in my throat as his words hit me like a ton of bricks. It was all too clear what he meant. "We are all equal in the eyes of God."

"Then kiss me," he sputtered angrily. "Just one kiss, and I won't have your boyfriend killed." He grinned maniacally. "I'll just run him out of town."

Not knowing what else to do, I turned and ran from the building. I hadn't gone very far when I encountered Sam, leading Mary Lou and the onion cart.

"We have to get out of here," I told him urgently. "Someone saw us kissing yesterday."

Fighting back the new rise of tears that threatened to escape, I continued. "Sam, the sheriff says he is going to hang you!"

He looked as though he was in shock, regarding me with wide eyes. "Come on, Mary Lou," he said at last, turning slowly to lead the donkey towards the lake.

Biting my lip, I grabbed Sam's arm. "We have to leave Mary Lou behind, Sam."

I cannot express how my heart broke for him. If you could only have seen the way he regarded me with tears in his big brown eyes. "Okay," he agreed finally.

Within a few moments we were rowing across the lake on Sam's boat. I actually fooled myself into believing that we might make it across. Then, a look of terror captured Sam's face. I turned around slowly, cautiously, unsure I wanted to see what was behind us. The sight of the Walker's new boat greeted me. Horrible black smoke rose up from it, blinding me as they drove closer. I heard the sickening crack of a gunshot and could barely see Sam fall into the water beside me.

I dove for him, yelling his name, and the sudden movement caused the boat to overturn. I searched for him frantically; the weight of my dress pulling me under more than once before someone grabbed me from behind. Still, I fought, screaming his name even as they dragged me onto the motorboat.

"Your boyfriend is dead," one of the men spat at me, and I only sobbed harder in reply.

"You're lying!" I accused, unable to accept what I knew was true. Unable to comprehend what exactly that meant, my tears froze on my face, and my hysteria was replaced with a strange, unfamiliar numbness that contained my whole body. The men simply ignored me, pretended that I didn't exist, and soon the boat was pulling up to the dock. I gave in, too tired to fight anymore, and allowed myself to be led onto land.

The sights that greeted me were unbearable. The remains of the schoolhouse smoldered in the distance, and Mary Lou lie unmoving on the ground. Someone had shot Sam's adored donkey in the head.

I must stop writing now, as the events of just two days ago are playing again in my head in such vivid recall that I cannot bear it any longer. I wish so much to return to the way it was before Sam kissed me, even if it would mean to never be a part of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 3

**The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 3**

**  
Description: Well, in a nutshell, Kate finally shoots the sheriff and skips town.**

**Author: C.L. Curtis**

**Disclaimer: Nope, nothing to my name yet. Maybe someday, though!**

**Note: Reviews are really, really nice. I'm not asking for a novel, but a sentence or two on what you thought about the story would be simply fabulous. I put a lot of time and effort into this for your entertainment, so I'd say it's a fair trade, right? **

**May 24, 1890 **

Finally, it seems that I have run out of tears. The pain, however, has yet to abate. I have lost everything, absolutely everything that I held dear to my heart. I might as well have been exiled from Green Lake, as it is clear that the foundations of the life I built here have been destroyed. I can't stay here any longer, not after what they have done, but also I feel that I never again wish to resume teaching. How could I face such innocence day by day? How could I ever again stand in a schoolhouse without thinking of him?

The Town feels no remorse. I sat by my window today and watched as life continued as normal outside. They took an innocent life in violence, and yet they lose no sleep. The children are blinded as well—too young to understand the severity of the situation, let alone form their own opinions. They know only that their schoolteacher is a 'bad' woman, and that the schoolhouse is no longer.

The older children are another matter.

As Teresa Parker and Robert Pike walked past my cabin this morning, I could hear their muffled words through the open window.

"Miss Katherine kissed a black man," Teresa was saying in hushed tones, pure disgust in her voice. Robert replied by spitting in the dirt outside of my home.

I know not the reasons for their intolerance. Love doesn't know race. And neither does God.

I have sat perched by my window for the majority of the day, lacking the will or energy to move. So far the only comfort I have received has come from an unlikely source. I happened to glance out through the panes as Emma Wilson and Becca Tennyson made their way down the road. Emma was pointedly drilling the little girl on the spelling words I had assigned to her just last week, and as they passed, our eyes met. Her eyes, too, were bloodshot.

I cannot bear to look into the faces of these people, many of whom I once called my friends. I also cannot bear these feelings of hopelessness, of helplessness. I refuse to give in to them. Hopeless, perhaps, but no man will _ever_ dare call me 'helpless.'

**May 25, 1890 **

I have utterly lost my mind. I have done the unthinkable.

I shot the sheriff.

Today, as he was drinking his cup of morning coffee.

I can't describe what came over me, I can only tell you that I calmly rode my horse to the sheriff's office, feeling far too weary and weak to walk. I cannot for the life of me recollect what was going through my mind. I only remember vowing to reclaim my identity. I will never be a victim ever again.

Without giving it as much as a second thought, I strode into the office, the gun that I have always kept for safety concealed behind my back.

"Hello," I greeted somberly, a dangerous smile playing at my lips. "So, did you still want that kiss?"

As he opened his mouth in a gasp, I pulled out my gun and shot him in one swift motion. Then, I carefully applied my lipstick and gave him the kiss he had so requested. Stepping back to admire my work, I was momentarily frozen by the realization of what I had just done. Once I was finished gaping at him, the instinct to run kicked in, and I turned to do just that.

However, instead of an open doorway to greet me, there stood Miss Emma Lorraine Wilson, pale as a ghost.

I stared at her, the gun clattering to the floor as I brought up my hands to symbolize that I had no intentions of harming her. To my shock, instead of fleeing for help, the girl stepped toward me, stooping to pick up the weapon and push it back into my hands.

"He deserved it," she said bitterly, big green eyes locking into mine. "Miss Katherine, you better get out of here."

And so, now I am in Austin. Surely, a search for me has already begun, as the jailers were bound to identify me as the sheriff's murderer in exchange for a pardon. If one thing is certain, it is that I can't let them find me. I refuse to give them the honor by allowing myself to die by their hands.


	4. Chapter 4

The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 4

**The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 4**

**Author: C.L. Curtis**

**Description: A year after Sam's death, Kate reflects on how her life has changed. Also, a cowboy by the name of Jake Jensen invited himself to join the outlaw, and thus begins the acquiring of her posse.**

**Disclaimer: Louis Sachar still owns Kate. Jake, however, is mine. Hands off, ladies.**

**May 22, 1891 **

It has been exactly one year since Sam's death. Still, I remember that day as though it were yesterday, and the pain of that memory is still fresh. I cope only by refusing to think of it, focusing my energies instead on the new life I am building for myself. I have not once returned to Green Lake.

The events of this past year will not be explained easily. My time has been occupied by taking whatever measures necessary to stay alive and free. I have robbed banks and stagecoaches, even killed for my needs. The only person I am responsible for now is me, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I allowed myself to care for others once, but I will certainly never make that mistake again.

That's not to say I spend all of my time, alone, though. About five months ago, a man by the name of Jake Jensen got me out of what could have been a very bad situation.

What should have been a routine bank robbery was foiled when I was recognized while still on the street. I suppose I must have underestimated myself, and the reputation I have acquired over the past year. Only after the fact did I see the Wanted posters bearing an uncanny resemblance to my face along the words 'Kissin' Kate Barlow' and the obligatory 'Dead or Alive'. 'Kissin' Kate', attributed to the fact that I still leave those I kill with the mark of my kiss. It seems oddly appropriate, though it is more or less an indication of my current mental state. I'm not sure if 'crazy' is quite the right word for it, though, considering that crazy people aren't supposed to know that they are, in fact, insane. I do. I am well aware of this fact, and the only difference is that I don't particularly care one way or the other.

Anyway, it all began when one brave soul shouted "That's Kissin' Kate!", setting up the entire town into an uproar. Amidst the shouting throngs of people who were only causing more confusion, I was grabbed from behind. The man clapped his hand over my mouth and pulled me into an alley, and then through a side door into a cabin. Finally, he released me.

"You need to be careful, missy," he hissed simply, taking a step away from me and hurriedly crossing to close the drapes. Eyes wide and mouth gaping open, I stared at him, trying to decide what exactly to make of him. He was a few years older than I, about twenty-seven, with sandy blonde hair and light blue eyes. His build was muscular, skin tanned and dark.

I was less than impressed.

"I am careful," I spat indignantly. "You have no right to-"

"Aw, would ya do us both a favor and just _listen_ for a minute, Kate?" he pleaded, his expression sharpening dangerously.

I looked at him with something like wonder, opening my mouth to inquire as to how he was so certain he knew my name, let alone my identity. He beat me to the punch.

"Look, Ms. Barlow," he continued, sarcasm dripping from his every word. "I don't know if you're aware of the fact that you're wanted all over the state of Texas, but I can assure ya, the rate you're goin'? You won't last long as an outlaw." He arched an eyebrow. "Which is sad, really, considerin' I'm such a big fan and all."

Luckily, his tone snapped me back onto my game, and I shot back sassily: "And just what do you suggest?"

Here, he stepped toward me, looking down at me square in the eyes and holding out a hand. "I can help you. I'd _like_ to help you. My name is Jake Jensen."

Unappreciative to the violation of my personal space, I shoved him away from me. "I don't need your help, _Jake_. In fact--"

Opening my mouth to make some creative threat or another, I was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot ringing through the cabin. On instinct, I pulled my own gun and whirled around, slowly turning toward Jake. He had a gun in one hand, and a satisfied grin on his face as he tucked it out of sight.

"Didn't see that comin' did ya?" he said good-naturedly, motioning toward something in the corner a few feet behind me. "Neither did he, let me tell you."

In awe, I looked down at the corner to survey the dead rat looking back at me. Slowly, gun still drawn, I met Jake's eye again.

"You win," I muttered, against my better judgment. "Come with me, if it's what you want. But I'm the boss. _You_ listen to _me_. Got that?" I pointed my gun directly at his face, just in case he chose to decline. "One wrong move, and I can assure you: I won't hesitate to kill you."

Luckily for him, he took my warning to heart. Now, Jake Jensen is my willing accomplice, and truth be told? Sometimes I even enjoy the company.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 5**

**Author: C.L. Curtis**

**Description: Jake earns himself an official outlaw name, and the pair meets a very interesting character via what was supposed to be a routine stage wagon robbery.**

**Disclaimer: ….Nope, still not in any way affiliated with Mr. Sachar. **

**July 25, 1891 **

Enclosed in a Wanted poster I tore from a building earlier in San Antonio today. In the event that it is indecipherable by the time you read this, allow me to transcribe:

Wanted: Dead or Alive; Jake "Tall Texan" Jensen 

"Huh," he had muttered, cocking his head to one side as we surveyed the parchment, prior to robbing the town's only bank. "It does sorta look like me. There's somethin' in the eyes, though, that's not quite right."

"I don't know," I replied, tilting my own head and squinting my eyes. The truth was that the sketched portrayal was _far_ from accurate, portraying the man to my left as an utterly wicked soul with daggers for eyes. In truth, while he is certainly no saint, he is more gangly and mischievous than anything else. That's not to say that I'd ever want to be one on his bad side. "Give it another year or two."

The matter was brought up again this evening.

"Now, really, that ain't fair!" he exclaimed out of the blue, as the fire died and we both prepared for a night's rest. I had already rolled my coat over the bag that I keep my "prizes" in, using it as a pillow and closing my eyes, desperate for sleep.

"_What_ in heaven's name are you on about?" I snapped drowsily. A long day coupled with listening to his eternal useless jabber had made me plain irritable.

"I'm just wonderin' why it is that you get to be 'Kissin' Kate', and I get stuck with 'Tall Texan?" he whined, staring up at the stars wistfully, as if they would give him the answer he was hoping for.

"C'mon Jake," I muttered, trying to ignore the pounding in my temples. "You're over six feet tall, and you're from Texas. You don't like it, I'd be happy to shorten those legs for you."

Sensing that it was time to leave me alone, he was silent for a few minutes.

"Well," he said finally, sounding a bit more cheerful. "It does sort of have a ring to it."

"Mmm hmm," I agreed, without opening my eyes as I rolled onto my side. "I'd shut up if I were you, before you become 'Jake 'Dead Texan' Jensen'"

He chuckled, but I didn't hear another word out of him until morning.

**July 26, 1891 **

We had a change of plans yesterday. As we packed up, I caught sight of something in the distance. Intrigued, I dropped what I was doing to peer out at the horizon, adrenaline coursing through my veins when my suspicions were confirmed.

"What're you lookin' at?" Jake asked, hair tousled and still half-asleep, sluggishly following my gaze.

"What's it look like, Jake?" I replied automatically, hastening in my efforts. "It's a stagecoach!"

The stupid fool had the audacity to make a joke. "That's 'Tall Texan' to you," he corrected me, grinning.

With some effort, I bit back a rather creative threat of death, chewing on my lip silently for a moment to keep from encouraging him. If there's one thing Jake simply can't stand, it's failing to get a rise out of me. Almost instantly, he sobered up, securing his hat and mounting his horse.

"You comin', or what?" he asked, drawing his gun and looking back at me with his signature crooked grin. I mirrored his actions, smiling a little in spite of myself.

We took off at a canter, Jake directly behind me, and I shot my gun into the distance. The driver of the coach was taken by surprise, and as human nature would have it, his predictable impulse was to slow the carriage, making them an easy target. As we drew closer, another shot rang from behind me, and I knew that Jake had hit him. Caught up in the moment, hardly giving a thought to the fact that he had taken such aggressive action without my permission, I dismounted and crossed to the door of the stagecoach. Even as I did so, its occupant stepped outside, both hands in plain view. He was very much an average looking man, of average height and dark brown hair and eyes.

"Don't shoot," he requested. "I'd give you everything I own, but it's all gone now anyway. All that was left was this carriage, and I doubt you'd want much with that." He pauses, looking a little amused. "Although, if that's your fancy, feel free to take that, too. Think of it as a gift." He actually even began to _laugh_. "Hell, you can even have my driver. He's an agreeable fellow. Won't bother you much."

Now, I have come to learn that people have strange ways of dealing with imminent death. This, however, was a new one. This man was insane. There was no other explanation. Why else would he be so giddy to see two crooks aiming firearms at him?

I heard a "click" from behind me, signaling that Jake's patience was beginning to wane. "Don't," I warned him, intrigued by this man. Something told me that he just might actually have something of more importance to say. Or, at the very least, he could prove to be a very entertaining little toy.

"You mean to tell me, big fancy stagecoach like this, and you've got nothing to show for it?" I prompted him, making a small gesture with the outstretched hand that still gripped my rifle.

"Yes ma'am," he reaffirmed. "Got nothin' to my name but this coach, the horses, and the dead man driving it."

"That was a wrong answer, buddy," Jake threatened, a hazardous monotone claiming his voice.

"I'm not looking to impress anybody," he replied, far too casual for my taste. "The way I see it, though, if you're gonna take my coach, my horses, my dead driver, and in a few minutes, my life? You might just want to get to know me first."

"That's not usually an option we offer, pal," I stated darkly, cocking the pistol.

"First time for everything, isn't there?" He asked, disregarding me entirely. "Look, you can see that I'm not in any place to try anything funny. All I'm askin' is for five minutes of your time, before you decide whether or not you want to do me in. Who know? Maybe you'll even discover that I'm quite likeable."

I considered this carefully. Frankly, I was interested to see where it would go. "Five minutes and counting," I told him finally. "Hands where I can see them. Take as much as a single step in my direction and you're a dead man."

"Fair enough," he agreed easily. "Well, for starters, my name is William Pryce. Long time ago, I was an attorney. Has a good life, married a beautiful girl, had two young kids. Until I decided to represent a man now convicted of an terrible crime. An unimaginable crime that touched the lived of many, many people. In a small town, people talk. They don't play around with that kind of evil." An ironic smile played at his lips, and I was unnerved.

"People started to talkin', and it was decided that I was as much at fault as him. They set fire to my house one night. The blaze destroyed everything I owned and claimed the lives of my wife and children."

His detachment unsettled me, to put it frankly. Yet, I could not keep from listening.

"I managed to escape, of course. Ran for my life. 'Course, since then, nothing seems to have worked out for me. This stagecoach—the one you want so badly to kill me for? Ain't even mine. Not really. It was given to me as a gift from a sympathetic young heir who thought it might take me to a place where I could start over. Or, at least, get me off of the street in front of his house."

I didn't understand why he was so apathetically pouring out his heart to two strangers, pointing guns at him. We certainly were no angels of mercy.

"Why are you tellin' us all this?" Jake demanded even as the thought occurred to me, as though he read my mind.

"So you'd understand what I'm about you ask you," came the cryptic reply.

"Any more of this talking, and I just might find that my finger might slip right onto this here trigger—" I began, beginning to tire of this nonsense.

"I want to join you."

I was taken aback by this, unsure of how to respond. This man—Pryce—he was cunning. Cool and collected under pressure, and bold. More importantly, he was as insane as the two of us, if not more so. He had a chip on his shoulder, a reason to be angry.

"How do I know you aren't just playing us, until we've reached some civilization where you can go crying to the authorities, turn us over?" I asked, watching his expression carefully, scrutinizing.

His reply was automatic, a new fire finally blazing in his eyes. He never took that fatal step toward me, but his body tensed in a way that I could tell he wanted to.

"The authorities. You mean, the same authorities that were supposed to protect me and my family?" His voice was quiet, chilling. "Believe me, if I'm every face-to-face with those authorities, the _last_ thing I'll be doing is crying to them."

If anyone could understand what he meant by that statement, it would surely have to be me.

"Fine." I replied, lowering my gun cautiously. I could feel Jake's silent objection even behind my back. "Besides, I need a smooth talker like you around. I'm Kate Barlow, this here's Jake Jensen." I jerked my thumb over my shoulder to indicate the latter.

"Howdy," Jake muttered sarcastically, the scowl of a recently scolded child on his face.

Pryce let out a low whistle. "Well, if it ain't the Holy Grail of outlaws themselves. My pleasure, Kissin' Kate and Texan Jensen."

"You call me Kate, and him Jake." I corrected him immediately, cringing at the prospect of being called by that nickname on a daily basis. "And if you make one wrong move-,"

"She'll kill you," Jake spoke up, giving a short nod for emphasis. "She means it too."

The man raised his hands in defense. "Got it."

"You got a gun, Pryce?"

"Yes, ma'am." He flinched, quickly adding: "Inside, of course."

"Get it. We're out of here."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Kate

**The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 6**

**Author: C.L. Curtis**

**Disclaimer: Kate belongs to Louis Sachar. I'm only borrowing her for the sake of fun. **

**Authors Note: Heads up--I am going to start skipping days, months, and possibly years in the entries, because, surprise! I have twenty years to cover. So, if one entry is in May of 1891, and the next is December of 1894, be aware that that's not an oversight, but rather an effort to keep the story moving.  
**

**July 28, 1891 **

We are headed west again. Within a week or so we should be in Fredericksburg. On a normal day, we rest four or five times and then camp out at night. To keep their minds off of the heat, the men take to jabbering, usually uselessly. Of course, occasionally something interesting comes up, such as the subject of how Jake came to join me.

"Believe it or not, I saved her from certain death," I overheard him boasting yesterday afternoon.

"That's what he likes to think," I called over my shoulder. "I expect you'll be smarter than to believe that nonsense."

Jake snorted in reply, while Pryce began to chuckle, before quickly changing his mind, falling silent, and looking back at me. I was pleased to see this evident fear of me—it was just what made a good accomplice.

However, Jake was never one to pick up on subtlety, and therefore nothing would keep him from finishing his story. Following this, I notified Pryce of my expectations of him.

"…You_ never_ shoot anyone without my signal. You do, there will be consequences, I promise you. I will not hesitate to kill either of you."

At this, Jake shot me a sideways glance and then rolled his eyes. He'd heard it all before, but I'll admit, that didn't always prevent him from making a few "mistakes". I pointedly ignored him and continued.

"And while we're at it, let's get something straight. We are not friends; You two are working for ME. And if you have any kind of problem with that--" I nodded to the vast desert that surrounded us, smiling rather sardonically. "I won't take any offense if you choose to leave now."

Automatically, Pryce shook his head emphatically, looking quite alarmed. "No, ma'am. No problem. You're the boss. Whatever you say, goes."

Jake let out a low whistle at that little testament, looking entirely amused. I, on the other hand, nodded my approval.

"After this conversation, there's no backing out," I concluded. "You already know too much."

"Yeah," Jake chimed in, sobering up and gesturing to the gun on his belt. "If you ever change your mind, just let one of us know."

I think Pryce got the point.

"Also," I added, my tone brightening ever so slightly. "You make sure you drink water, and plenty of it. And if you see a yellow spotted lizard, stay away. You're no good to me dead."

"Yes ma'am," he repeated.

**August 3,1891 **

We arrived in Fredericksburg today, which created quite the spectacle. Though our visit was brief, by the time we left, you could cut the tension with a knife. People kept to their homes, the street was utterly deserted…the whole deal. It was actually very entertaining. Our intentions were to carry out a daytime bank robbery, a feat in itself, but one that I knew would add to our reputation.

When we reached the bank, we dismounted. Jake and I pulled our guns from the holsters, and looked expectantly toward Pryce.

"Well, Pryce, lets see what you've got," I prompted, quirking an eyebrow. He looked at the bank warily, and Jake gave him a little shove as he walked past him, holding open the door at grinning back at me.

"Ladies first," he said, giving a deep, theatrical bow.

I ignored him, and stepped inside to regard an extraordinarily frightened teller. Honestly, he looked as though he were preparing to run away, regardless of what was expected of his post.

"Is there, uh, somethin' I can do for you, ma'am?"

"Now, come on," I said to him, hands on my hips as I tilted my head to the side and gave him a 'look'. "Can't we _please _skip the formalities?"

"You-you're," he stammered, what color was left in his face draining completely away.

"Kissin' Kate Barlow, yeah, that's her," Jake said portentously, stepping up to the desk, and holding open a black bag. "Now be a good boy and just put all the money in the bag, and maybe you'll get a little kiss."

I wasn't able to keep myself from rolling my eyes at that. Sighing in frustration, I flipped my gun around my finger. That joke was getting old. Regardless, the teller filled the bag, never once taking his eyes off of me.

"What?" I snapped at one point. "Am I pretty?"

"No," He said immediately, before flinching, turning bright red and swaying as if about to pass out. "I mean, yes. Yes ma'am!"

I cocked my pistol. "What was that?"

"Yes ma'am, you're very pretty! _Very_ pretty!"

Jake tied the bag, looking from me, to the teller, and then back at me again. He cleared his throat loudly, speaking up in bored tones.

"Just shoot him, Kate. I'm hungry."

I was affronted.

"I don't take orders from you!" I informed him sharply, rounding on him with the rifle still drawn. "If I decide I want to stand here all day, we damn well will!"

He muttered something that sounded very much like "_women_" under his breath, but I chose to ignore him. After one last hard stare at the teller, I pulled the trigger.

"Finally," Jake breathed, meriting an icy glare from my direction. He raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I didn't say nothin'."

I drew a shade of red lipstick from my pocket, carefully applied it, and turned to face the boys.

"Does this color suit me?" I asked sarcastically, the question hypothetical. Ever eager to please, Pryce opened his mouth to reply, and Jake casually stepped on his foot.

"Very nice color," Jake replied in a dry tone that rivaled mine, and Pryce nodded, wincing at what I presumed to be the pain in his foot.

"Idiots," I muttered wholeheartedly. Approaching the teller behind the desk, I knelt down and kissed him on the forehead. While Jake would have led you to believe otherwise, the whole thing really did happen very fast. In fact, the authorities didn't show up until we were on our way out the door, and what followed then is utterly insignificant in the greater scheme of things.


End file.
